Page 30 of Killaney Blood

The fighter stands, his legs steadier now that he can see. Declan slaps him on the shoulder and whispers something in his ear before he returns to the center of the ring.

Declan looks at me and smiles. "Good under pressure."

I nod and wipe the hair out of my face with the back of my hand. I won't lie, the adrenaline was a rush, but I don't show it.

I back away, watching as the fight resumes.

For the next few hours, I'm caught in a cycle of blood and more adrenaline. Between rounds, I patch up cuts, staunch bleeding, and assess for concussions. Declan's fighters win two matches and lose one, an outcome he seems to be happy with.

After the final fight, the crowd begins to disperse. I pack up my supplies, exhausted but satisfied with my work. None of the injuries were life-threatening, though two fighters will have new scars to add to their collections.

I head toward the exit, ready to go home and shower off the night's blood and sweat.

"Lyra." Declan's voice stops me.

I turn to see him approaching, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. He holds an envelope in his hand.

"Here," he says, holding it out to me. "What I promised, plus a little extra."

I glance inside the envelope. There's more cash than I've ever held at once, several thousand dollars at least.

I close it and nod, stuffing it into my bag.

I try to move past him, but he shifts, blocking my path. "What exactly do you plan on doing with all the money I'm going to pay you?" he asks, his voice casual but his eyes intent.

I look up at him. "I thought you knew. Had it all figured out."

"Obviously you want to leave," he says, crossing his arms. "But where?"

The question catches me off guard. My mind flashes to the picture I used to keep hidden. A magazine clipping of old stonebuildings and mist-covered mountains. Transylvania. Romania. The place he told me about.

The memory surfaces unwanted, a rare moment of kindness in a sea of cruelty. One night I was treating a contact, an older Romanian man. After I fixed him, instead of punishing me, he told me about his homeland. How there were still places in Romania where people lived simply. Villages where you could disappear and start over. Places where the past couldn't follow you.

A few months later, I found a picture of a place called Bra?ov, Romania, and I ripped it out. I'd kept that picture with me for years, until one of the others found it and tore it to shreds in front of me, laughing as I tried not to cry.

I shake my head, pushing that memory away. "It's none of your business," I say coldly.

"Humor me," he presses. "New York? Chicago? Miami?"

I force a smile. "Vegas," I lie. "Always wanted to see the desert."

Declan studies me, his green eyes searching mine. I can tell he doesn't believe me, but I don't care. My dreams aren't for him to know.

"Vegas," he repeats, the word flat with disbelief. "Somehow I don't see you dealing cards at the Bellagio."

"Well, good thing you don't need to see me at all once this arrangement is done." I step around him. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to go home."

He doesn't try to stop me this time, but his voice follows me as I walk away. "Stay by your phone, Lyra. I'll be needing you soon."

I don't look back as I head toward the elevator. I think of the envelope in my bag.

Maybe this is what Sabrina was talking about that night, accepting the fleeting kindness of a monster.

Maybe Declan is the man I should latch onto, not push away, to get what I want. What I'm after.

Fuck. I don't even know how to do that without feeling like I'm losing myself.

But maybe I should try.